Autoboyography by Christina Lauren
His father likes this answer, cupping his shoulder in a palm and squeezing with a gesture of solidarity before handing over the keys.
Sebastian means to go to church, he does. But instead, he turns left, not right, drives straight when he should turn, and eventually finds his way down the NO ACCESS dirt road. He parks there, dragging a blanket from the trunk and staring up at blue skies, trying to remember the stars.
It isn’t the same out here now. For one, it’s sweltering; the air swarms with mosquitoes. The second difference—the absence of a long body beside him—is even more notable. He gives himself ten minutes, and then twenty. He tries to say good-bye to Tanner, but even when he closes his eyes and asks God for the right words, for the spell that will unlock his heart, they don’t come.
Sebastian learned on tour that one of the responsibilities of being a published author is having social media. He has accounts, but they remain largely inactive, in part because the temptation is so great.
He’s resisted so far, but lying on the hood of his car, he finally caves and opens Instagram, searching for Manny’s name. Scrolling down his list of followers, he finds what he’s looking for: tannbannthankyouman.
A laugh tears out of him.
Tanner’s account is unlocked, and Sebastian presses his thumb to the profile image, expanding it. It’s a terrible idea. He knows it. But when Tanner’s face pops into view, his heart seems to fill with warm water, pressing everything else aside. It’s a picture of Tanner holding an enormous pink flower. It obstructs half of his face, but his eyelashes seem three-dimensional. His eyes are luminous, hair shaggier than the last time he saw him, mouth curled into that singular, joyful smirk.
Tanner’s Instagram feed is even more addicting than Sebastian expected: a picture of him in the backseat of his car, pretending to strangle his father from behind. A picture of Hailey, fast asleep beside him, with the caption, I NEED AN ALIBI #NOREGRETS. A picture of a hamburger, some terribly fake aliens, Tanner’s Camry parked at a curb in front of a building called Dykstra Hall, and then—Sebastian nearly sobs audibly—a photo of a smiling Tanner standing in an empty dorm room, wearing a UCLA shirt.
Sebastian’s thumb hovers over the “like” icon. If he touched it, Tanner would see. Would that be so terrible? Tanner would know he was thinking of him. Maybe in time they could even follow each other, keep in touch, talk.
But this is where Sebastian gets into trouble. In his head it never stops at talking. It goes to phone calls, and meeting up, and kisses, and more. Because even now, as people are probably arriving at his house—all of them here for him—he’s still thinking of Tanner.
In a few weeks, he’ll receive the Melchizedek Priesthood, and after that he’ll go through the Temple, receive his endowments—and he’s thinking of Tanner. He tries to imagine wearing his garments—something he’s looked forward to his whole life—
And he can’t breathe.
He’s gay. He’ll never be anything else. Tonight they’ll all be waiting for Sebastian to give his testimony and speak on how full of joy he is that he’s been called to spread God’s word wherever He’s chosen to send him, and he doesn’t even know where he fits into God’s word anymore.
What is he doing?
• • •
As he goes inside his house, his mouth waters—it smells like food. His mom comes up, gives him a squeeze and a cookie.
She looks so happy, and Sebastian is about to ruin everything.
He clears his throat. “Hey, guys.” Not everyone is here yet, but the important ones are. Five smiling faces turn in his direction. Faith tugs at her dress, straightening proudly when he looks at her. He remembers what it feels like, to be little like that and watch someone as they’re about to open their letter. It’s like sharing a room with a celebrity.
His heart splinters. “You all look so nice tonight.”
His mom moves to stand near the dining room table. Her apron says KEEP CALM AND SERVE ON, and all he can think about is Tanner’s mom and her rainbow apron that embarrassed her son, and what Sebastian would give to have a parent who accepted him for what he was, no matter what.
“Sebastian?” his mom says, taking a step closer. “Honey, are you okay?”
He nods but feels a sob rise in his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m so . . . so sorry. But I think I need to talk to Mom and Dad for a few minutes alone.”
EPILOGUE
I made a joke the other day on the phone to Autumn: I don’t know which is worse, Provo or Los Angeles. She didn’t get it, and of course she didn’t because she’s living in an idyllic Connecticut wonderland, wearing elbow-patch sweaters and knee-high socks. (She is; don’t kill the fantasy.) LA is great, don’t get me wrong. It’s just massive. I grew up near San Francisco, so I know big cities, but LA is a different thing entirely, and UCLA is a city within a city. From above, Westwood Village is this dense network of arteries and arterioles within the huge LA vascular system, sandwiched between Wilshire and Sunset. It took about three weeks here before I stopped feeling like I was drowning in an urban ocean.
Mom, Dad, and Hailey drove out here with me in August in what I think we would all describe as the worst road trip in the history of time. At various points, I’m sure we each prayed for the zombie apocalypse to wipe out our loved ones. Bottom line: Hailey does not do well in confined spaces, Dad drives like a blind grandparent, and none of us agrees on music.
Moving on: Orientation was a blur. There was a lot of training on how not to be a rapist or die of alcohol poisoning, both of which I think we can agree are good things to cover. We heard about the honor code—a quaint, well-intended suggestion compared to the iron-clad monstrosity imposed at BYU. Three weeks later and I’m not sure I remember what’s even in it, because clearly no one listened.
I was assigned to live in Dykstra Hall, which apparently isn’t bad because it was renovated a few years ago. But given my lack of any previous experience in the matter, I can only say: It’s a dorm. Twin beds, separate bathrooms for males and females, with a long row of showers on one wall and a long row of toilets on the other. Laundry rooms. Wi-Fi. My roommate, Ryker, is easily the wildest person I’ve ever met. It’s like the universe said, Oh, you want to leave Provo for something a bit more lively? Here you go. Bad news: He parties pretty much constantly and reeks of beer. Good news: He’s hardly ever here.
We don’t need to declare a major until sophomore year, but I’m pretty sure I’m going premed. Who knew, right? The science programs here are great, and if I minor in English, it’s a great balance course-load-wise. Look at me, being proactive.
Science was an obvious choice, but I think we all know I can’t move too far away from English, either. One, because Autumn has trained me so well, it would almost be a waste to leave that behind. But two, writing tapped something in me I didn’t know was there. Maybe something will actually happen with this book. Maybe it won’t and I’ll become inspired again and write another. Whatever. Writing is a tie—however tenuous—to him. I can admit now that I need that.
He’s still there in nearly every step I take. At the first party I went to, I played the social game and met a couple of people, had some beers, flirted here and there, but went home alone. I wonder when I’ll be past this constant ache and actually want someone else. There have been situations where I think, If it weren’t for Sebastian, I probably would have hooked up tonight. But I want him. As crazy as it sounds to think this book is only for me—especially after everything—it feels safe to say it here: I haven’t given up hope. His reaction to seeing me in the bookstore has stuck with me. And he drew a mountain emoji in my book. He loves me. I know he does.
Or, he did.
And being here is different more than just on the scale of the city; no matter what’s happening in the rest of the country, LA is a gay-friendly town. People are out. People are proud. Couples of every combination walk down the street holding hands and no one even blinks. I can’t imagine that happening on the average street in most
I don’t even know where Sebastian ended up going on his mission, but I’m worried about him. Is he having fun? Is he miserable? Is he stuffing a part of his heart into a lockbox just to keep the people in his life happy? I know he can’t be contacted, so I’m not texting or e-mailing, but just to release the pressure valve in my chest, sometimes I’ll type something up and send it to myself so at least the words can get out of me, stop stealing my air.
Autumn told me that his mom was going to host some public Facebook party for the letter opening, but I couldn’t stomach it. I assumed Autumn lurked on there, following the action, but she swears she has no idea where he ended up. Even if she was lying, though, I made her promise not to tell me. What if he’s in Phoenix? What if he’s in San Diego? I wouldn’t be able to keep from driving there and trolling the neighborhoods for Elder Brother, the hottest guy alive, with his floppy skater hair and white shirtsleeves, riding a bike.
Sometimes, when I can’t sleep and can’t stop thinking about everything we did together, I imagine giving in and asking Autumn where I can find him. I imagine showing up wherever he is, seeing him in his missionary uniform, and his surprise at seeing me there. I think I’d make the trade: I’ll convert, if you’ll be with me, even in secret, forever.
• • •
The first weekend in October, I call Auddy like I always do: at eleven on Sunday. There’s always the pain at first, the stab wound inflicted by the familiar pitch of her voice. Oddly, even as hard as it was saying good-bye to my folks at my dorm, saying bye to Autumn was harder. In some ways I hate that I didn’t tell her everything sooner. We’ll have other safe places, but we were each other’s first safe space. No matter what we say or what promises we make, it changes from here on out.
“Tanner, oh my God, hang on, let me read you this letter.”
This is honestly how she answers. I can’t even reply before she’s already put the phone down, off—I presume—to retrieve Bratalie’s latest manifesto.
Her roommate is a total drama queen, actually named Natalie, who leaves passive-aggressive notes on Autumn’s desk about noise, tidiness, the lack of toothpaste sharing that should occur, and the number of dresser drawers Autumn is allowed to occupy. Fun fact: We are also pretty sure she masturbates when she thinks Autumn is asleep. This isn’t related to anything, really, but I found it genuinely fascinating and required a lot of detail before I would agree with the theory.
Her phone scrapes across a surface before she returns with a bright, “Ohmygod.”
“A good one?”
“Maybe the best so far.” Auddy takes a breath, laughing on the exhale. “Remember how I told you she was sick earlier in the week?”
I vaguely remember the text. Our box gets pretty busy. “Yeah.”
“So, it’s related to that. Okay. ‘Dear Autumn,’ ” she reads, “ ‘Thank you again for bringing me breakfast the other morning. I felt so sick! I feel like such a jerk for saying this—’ ”
I laugh incredulously, anticipating where this is headed. “Oh my God.”
“ ‘—but I can’t stop thinking about it, so I just need to get it out. The fork and the plate were both dirty, with crusty stuff. And then I thought, Did Autumn do this on purpose? I hope not. I know I can be fussy sometimes, but I want us to be as close forever as we are now—’ ”
“Wow, she’s delusional.”
“ ‘—so I thought I would simply ask. Or maybe I just wanted to let you know that I knew, and if it was intentional, that was sort of nasty of you. Of course, if it was an accident, just ignore this. You’re so sweet. Xoxo, Nat.’ ”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Seriously, Auddy, find a new roommate. She makes Ryker seem mellow.”
“I can’t! From what I’ve seen of others changing roommates, it’s so much drama!”
“This isn’t drama?”
“It is,” she agrees, “but there’s an element of the absurd to it too. It’s objectively fascinating.”
“I mean, I get her letter about cracker crumbs. I’ve been warning you about this for years now. But a dirty fork and plate when you’re bringing food to her sickbed?”
She laughs. “It’s as if she doesn’t eat at the dining hall. The dishes are all pretty sketchy.”
“How dare they! Don’t they know they’re Yale?”
“Shut up. How’s LA?”
I look out my window. “Sunny.”
Auddy groans. “Good weekend? Anything interesting?”
“We played Washington State yesterday, so a bunch of us went to the game.”
“Who would have pegged you as a football fan?”
“I wouldn’t say fan so much as aware of the unspoken rules.” I lean back in my desk chair, scratching my jaw. “A few guys over in Hedrick were having a party last night. I went with Breckin.” My first and closest friend so far, Breckin escaped a small town in Texas, and by some strange coincidence is (1) gay and (2) Mormon. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. He’s also smart as hell and reads almost as voraciously as Autumn. I’d have a crush if my heart wasn’t already taken. “Pretty fun day. I don’t know. What’d you do?”
“Deacon had a race yesterday, so we did that.”
Deacon. Her new boyfriend, and a deity on the rowing team, apparently.
There is a small curl of jealous heat there. I can’t deny it. But mostly, he sounds like a pretty cool guy. He’s Irish, and totally infatuated with Autumn, so I already like him. He even texted me last week to ask me what I thought he should get her for her birthday. Recruiting the best friend: smart move.
“I miss you,” I tell her.
“I miss you too.”
We exchange Thanksgiving travel details, promise to talk next week, and ring off, with love.
For about fifteen minutes after we hang up, I feel blue.
But then I see Breckin in my doorway with a Frisbee.
“Which one this time?” he asks.
Thanks to a pitcher of vodka tonics and a Breaking Bad marathon one night in my room, he knows everything.
“Both of them.”
He waves his Frisbee. “Let’s go. It’s nice outside.”
• • •
There have been a few moments in my life when I think I’ve felt a higher power at work. The first was when I was six and Hailey was three. It’s my earliest clear memory; I have fuzzy ones from before it, of throwing pasta or staring up at my ceiling at night while my parents read me a book, but this was the first where every detail seems to have been tattooed in my mind. Mom, Hailey, and I were in a T.J. Maxx. The racks were rammed so close together and stuffed with clothes, it was nearly impossible to pass between without rubbing against something woolen or silken or denim.
Hailey was being playful and silly, and hid a couple of times in a rack Mom was sorting through. But then she disappeared. Completely. For ten minutes we ran around yelling her name with increasing hysteria, digging through every rod, shelf, and rack in the store. We couldn’t find her. We alerted the saleswomen, who called security. Mom was hysterical. I was hysterical. I’d never done anything like it before, but I closed my eyes and begged—not a person, not a power, maybe just the future—that she was okay. Only a few weeks before, I’d learned the word “kidnap,” and it seemed to rewire my brain so that I viewed everything through the lens of a possible abduction scenario.
I felt better when I said it over and over—please let her be okay, please let her be okay, please let her be okay—and maybe that’s why it always made sense to me later, when Sebastian said he felt better when he prayed. I knew I was helpless, but it still felt like my good intentions had power, that they could change the trajectory of whatever had happened to my sister.
I’ll forever remember the calm that washed over me. I kept chanting it to myself, and went and hugged Mom while the saleswo
There have been other times too. The feeling that there is someone warning me away from the ocean on a day the beach is eventually closed for dangerous riptides. The soothing relief of being so upset about something and, in an instant, being able to stop looping through the catastrophic scenarios and breathe in and out—wondering what it was that put the spiraling panic on hold and reminded me to unwind. Sometimes they’re small moments, sometimes they’re big, but I’ve always felt they were just part of being human, of being raised by thoughtful humans.
Still, being raised by thoughtful humans doesn’t explain what happened that Sunday afternoon. Breckin and I went outside, Frisbee in hand. It was amazing out—seventy-four with no wind, no clouds. The weird marine layer that hovers until lunchtime had evaporated, and the sky was this unreal blue, the kind every tourist notices and mentions. Breckin’s bright green Frisbee cut through it, back and forth between us. We dodged people on the lawn, apologizing when the Frisbee landed at someone’s feet or—once—hit their shin. We started with the sun to our left, but as we threw, and chased, and caught, I ended up with the sun directly in my eyes.
I’m probably romanticizing it now—in fact, in my more atheist moments, I know I’m romanticizing it, though in other times, I’m less sure—but in hindsight, I see the pattern of our game as this looping, meticulous Spirograph. With each of Breckin’s throws I caught, I shifted in a matter of precise degrees: ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, until I had rotated exactly ninety degrees from where I began.
Everyone has a gait, as unique and recognizable as a fingerprint. Sebastian’s gait was always upright, unhurried, and careful: each step as even as the one before. I knew his shoulders—wide, muscular—and the way his head sat on his neck—chin up in a sort of graceful bearing. I knew that he walked with his right thumb tucked loosely into his palm, so that it always looked a little like he was making a fist with his right hand while his left hand hung at his side, relaxed.